


The Wrath of a King

by lobstergirl



Series: The King and the Bowman [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I came to reclaim something of mine.”</p><p>An Orc raid goes horribly wrong for something was taken from the Elvenking nobody should attempt to lay their hands on. By the time the Orcs find out just who they have taken prisoner, it’s too late...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrath of a King

The Elvish blade cut into the Orc captain’s skin, making the miserable creature hiss and squirm and curse the day.

Their little raid had gone splendidly and they had carried riches and prisoners from the Elves' camp but with their stronghold less than a day’s travel ahead, the Orcs’ watchfulness had begun to waver and they rested more often, talking of feasting and killing, fighting over how to distribute the bounty.

That’s when the Elves had closed in on them.

“I came to reclaim something of mine,” the Elf said in a cold voice. The pressure of his blade increased. It burnt the Orc’s skin and he howled in pain.

There was no help to be expected from what was left of his motley group of warriors, thieves and bandits and so he pointed, hissing and spitting, in the direction where a group of charcoal tree stumps met a wall of rock marred by indentations. There, in an untidy heap, lay the stolen goods and sat the prisoners, bound and gagged, hoods over their heads.

“Free the prisoners. See if they are unharmed. For each scratch you find, kill three Orcs,” the tall Elf ordered, his hateful sword not leaving the Orc’s neck. “Of the rest, take that which has not been fouled or destroyed.”

The Elven warriors hurried to obey and when all was done, the Elf retreated slowly, walking backwards, sword at the ready and not leaving the Orc out of his sight. Only when four of his warriors stepped up to guard his side and back did he turn around and mounted his horse without speaking another word.

One of the Elves, a grim-faced warrior with his brown hair pulled back in a simple braid, dropped the head of a slain goblin at the Orc’s feet.

“Tell your Uruk-Hai masters nobody steals from King Thranduil.”

 

“What of the prisoners?”

The Uruk-Hai’s voice held a rage that made the surviving Orcs and Goblins shiver and huddle close to each other.

“They were taken by the Elves.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“What about the man? Did he survive?”

“Yes. The Elves took him, too.”

The massive soldier-orc threw his head back. His roar echoed from the walls.

“You worthless, stinking scum! You should have killed the human when you realised there was no chance of bringing him here alive!”

“He was just another filthy –” the trembling Orc captain ventured but the Uruk-Hai did not let him finish.

“That filthy human was the Elvenking’s consort, you maggot!” he thundered. “We would have had the mighty Thranduil at our mercy. He values his man-mare above all and _you let him go!_ ”

On his last words, his cleaver came down on the unlucky captain, splitting him in two with a sickening noise. He kicked the still twitching halves away in disgust.

“Feast on this, if feast you want. I am in no humour for any of this.”

With this, he stormed off, and the crowd that had stood and watched bore down on the carcass with cries of greed and bloodlust.

******

The Elvenhealer bowed to the King.

“He is ready to see you now, my lord,” she said in her melodic voice. “You will be pleased to hear that one scar is all he will keep.”

“And the warriors?”

“Of the four that returned harmed, only one will have to keep to his sick bed for a few days. A Morgul-blade badly wounded him and he is still very weak.”

“I will see him first.”

“As you wish.”

She led him to the healers’ tent where in a corner, hidden from sight by a pale green screen, a slim Elf was stretched out on a pallet. He struggled to sit up when he saw his king approach him, but Thranduil placed a hand on his arm.

“Lie still, Galuron,” he gently said. “You fought well, but a wound caused by a Morgul-blade is not to be taken lightly. It pleases me to find you awake. Rest now.”

“Thank you, my lord Thranduil.”

“Amdiril will see to your wound. With her, you need not fear. Your strength will come back soon, I don’t doubt it.”

He spoke a few more words with Healer Amdiril and then, finally, went to see the one he longed to see most.

 

Bard stood in the middle of the king’s tent, critically inspecting himself in a handheld mirror. He didn’t turn when he heard Thranduil enter.

“Starlight,” he said, “this is going to be an ugly scar when it’s healed completely.”

Thranduil walked up to him and closed his arms around him from behind. They stood like this for a few heartbeats, each content just to feel the other’s body heat, then Thranduil brushed Bard’s thick wavy hair aside and placed a kiss to the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder.

“I do not care about one scar. All I care about is right here, safe with me.”

He took the mirror from Bard’s hands, placed it on a small table and turned him around by his shoulders to see the scar for himself.

An angry red line zigzagged across the bowman’s broad chest and it would leave an ugly scar, that much was right. It would have been uglier still without Healer Amdiril who had cleaned and softened the edges, sealing the gaping wound with healing magic. Over the years, it would fade.

Thranduil put his hand on Bard’s chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart.

“I feared I had lost you, _meleth nín_. It would have broken me.”

“I was afraid, too,” Bard confessed. He reached up to touch Thranduil’s face and winced when the sensitive skin of his barely healed chest stretched, but claimed Thranduil’s mouth for a kiss.

“Make me forget all about Orcs and dying,” he whispered in his husky voice that never failed to make the king’s skin tingle. “I want you to remind me of all that’s beautiful in this world.”

Thranduil took one of his hands and placed a kiss on the badly bruised knuckles.

“I will,” he promised.

And he did.

 

 


End file.
